Page 34 of Hard Pass

Hence, this meeting.

I’m quickly briefed by Rebels management on a logical, practical plan and rerouted back to the conference room.

When I push the door open, I’m surprised to see Cole already there. He’s pacing—not casually, not controlled—but with an anger that has nowhere to go unless it’s directed at someone.

And the second he registers my presence, his head snaps up, his eyes lock on mine, and that ire is now angled my way—the accusation already there.

I lift both hands before he can say a word. “It wasn’t me.” The words come out steady—but there’s sufficient edge to them that I hate he can hear it. “I’ll say it again, it was not me.”

“Where I’m standing, why should I believe you?” he asks, tone flat, eyes wild.

I close the door behind me with a quiet click that feels entirely too final given the tension already building. There are enough prying eyes and ears in this place—clearly—but we need to have this conversation.

“I understand why you’d feel that way, but if I wanted to use pressure to push you, I wouldn’t use that methodology.”

His laugh is rife with disbelief and sarcasm. “How would you do it then?”

I take another step into the space, treading carefully with my response. “Strategically.”

“Vague.”

“True but having the public involved only muddies the water for me and my investigation.”

He runs a hand through his hair, agitation rolling off him in waves. His frustration is real. It’s not calculated or manufactured but rather exhaustive and wearing. There are stress lines on his face, and the hollows of his eyes are darkened.

“You do know my job is to win, right? I don’t get to have bad games,” he says, his voice growing quieter. “Not where I come from.”

“Cole—”

“I have a game in a few days, my arm feels like it’s not my own, my head’s a mess because of it, and now I’ve got this—this bullshit—splashed everywhere. Since when do you get to be judge, jury, and executioner when I haven’t even had a chance to defend myself?”

I don’t interrupt him because he’s right. Even if he did this to himself, caused this problem, he can still be completely right. And pressure and how one reacts to it is the one thing I can’t predict even after studying all the patterns in the world.

“Your team just briefed me. They’ve come up with a media strategy and—”

“Media strategy?” he barks out. “You do realize that most people tune in for the first few days of headlines—the ones that accuse me—and rarely stick around to read weeks later that the accusations were unfounded, right? How is media strategy going to fix those who’ve already deemed me a fucking cheater and will never look at me in any other way?”

The frustration threaded through his voice tells me more than anything he said in our last meeting. He’s young, overwhelmed, and now put in an untenable position.

This is your job, Dub. You don’t have to feel guilty for doing it.

But it’s the way he looks at me—lost and confused, when everything else about him says arrogant asshole—that tugs on my sympathy, and rightfully so.

No client has ever made me question myself for doing my job like he is right now.

I clear my throat to shut the nonsense in my head out.

“Your points are valid.” I use my best moderator voice. “That’s why your team has called in a media specialist,” I say.

“Damage control specialist,” he says as I toggle my head from side to side instead of refuting him with words. “And you’re here why, then?”

Because I feel guilty about the leak?

Because I feel like in some weird way I know you and hate that I’ve somehow contributed to this?

Because maybe I was so distracted by our history, that I let something slip, that I wasn’t as cautious as usual, and maybe this is my fault?

And that’s unacceptable. Personal history doesn’t get to compromise my work. Ever.